


The Stranger

by apparentlytaboo



Series: Goodnight Death [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Character Development, Gen, Loneliness, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apparentlytaboo/pseuds/apparentlytaboo
Summary: On the planet Midnight, the Doctor ran into something new and unexplained. During their encounter, the creature learned from the memories of those it interacted with, including those of the Doctor himself. After fleeing the planet, the creature began to look for a new way of life. A way to interact with the world around it as the Doctor and the humans had. A way to end its loneliness.A long time and a meddlesome goddess later, on a blue planet far from home, the creature finds someone just as lonely as itself. Perhaps together, they can put their suffering aside for good.





	The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Here there be OC's.

“Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better.”

-Henry Rollins

 

The day my world ended I felt nothing; it was something close to spiritual shock. The damage to my soul was simply too massive; a trauma that no mortal being is equipped to heal. My husband is dead, and there is no one left to me in this vast world for whom I care, nothing left to live for really. I had given all I had in service to my country. “We don’t ask for anything more than everything you’ve got, and we will let you know when you have given it.” How true the statement was, looking back… I thought at first that I had understood it, painted across a recruitment poster in a dispassionate office. I was wrong.

Since I was young, I wanted to protect people; so, I had joined the military. I went to be part of the human shield that kept the majority safe. I went because _someone_ had to, and if I went it meant one less other person going in my place. Most of my family had already joined, and I was lucky enough to fall in love along the way, and for a while everything was right. But as the world around us expanded ever onward, proof of life elsewhere in the universe visiting our small planet time and again, the human race remained small-minded and continued to fight itself.

Years go by and my brothers are gone. My father, mother, lover, friends. One by one felled by sickness or an unseen enemy. ‘In defense of others’ we told ourselves. I waited, and watched, and fought along side them waiting for it to be my turn but it simply… never was. The ‘war’ is over and here am I: one lone ghost left on this plane to go on ‘living’ like a shade, doomed to remember what was lost.

When a conflict comes to its close, the final act of putting it behind us is to tie up the loose ends, put the pain and misery and ugly violence out of mind, like finishing the chapter of a book. And so, just like the generations before us, we survivors are forgotten. Remembering makes people uncomfortable, and we are the constant reminder, the thorn in the side of hard-won ‘peace.’ The gamut of human reaction is exhausting, and I am simply too tired to try and bear it.

Weeks later, after an endless sea of paperwork and blurred tableau of funerals, I find myself a place of solitude and simply… drift. The wilds of Idaho are peaceful; still vast enough to escape the growing press of humanity. In a small RV I post myself lakefront, and day in and out remain as busy as I can. The old jeep out front was on its last legs when I bought it and keeping it alive presents a constant challenge. The RV itself is new but still in need of maintenance and improvement: hand-built stairs, a power-wash, routine services. The small plot of crops I try in vain to keep alive requires perpetual attention.

Each day I wake to the first rays of the sun, and each day I am a blur of movement, too involved with anything and everything to allow myself the space to think. At every turn, the great emptiness within me waits for me to falter, one moment of reflection, of stillness, the echo of a long-lost face, is all it needs to swallow me and if I allow it, who knows if I will ever be strong enough to once more reach the surface?

So, I work until my fingers ache through the callouses, my bones grow weary and my muscles burn. I work until the world loses focus and I do not so much fall asleep as lose consciousness. And I wake to the first rays of sunlight at dawn. And I work well into the night. And I collapse and do not dream. And I repeat and tell myself that this is living.

***

Somewhere along the way I have accepted the emptiness within as a part of me, one which I struggle to remember ever having been without. The days grow longer as the season stretches into summer and my plants begin to grow (much to my astonishment) and as I look upon the world, I realize it is still beautiful. And still I am alone, no soul to share it with. And slowly the emptiness I have become swallows the rest of me until there is nothing left.

***

Eons later, (or possibly only months, it is hard to tell) I wake to the still beauty of the world and turn on the radio. The break in the silence is shocking at first, but ultimately pleasant. A siren’s song calling me back to the world from where I had been lost within myself. I still toil through the days but find small joys in the fruits of my labors. I am at peace enough to sit on the small dock at night, and watch the stars blending seamlessly into the reflection of the water, and think about how small I am, we all are, in comparison to the vast unknown above me.

***

One evening in august I am cleaning vegetables in the sink, washing the fresh dirt down the drain when I first feel it: a prickle of sensation at the back of my mind, like being watched. The woods are empty around me when I go to look; not even animals stirring as far as I can see, and the skin of my scalp begins to prickle. The feeling does not alarm me as much as it should: it feels as if I am not alone and after all this time it is a comfort more than a concern. Perhaps I have finally lost my grip on reality.

Humming the refrain from the radio, I return to my task, cleaning and cutting and imagining to myself that I am sharing the space with someone. The radio crackles with sudden static, and I sing Amanda Seyfried’s refrain for her, “little red riding hood, you sure are looking good, you’re everything, a big bad wolf could want.” I am pushing the vegetables into a pot when movement catches the corner of my eye: a golden blur just at the edge of my perception. When I turn to catch it the night air is still, and empty, but still I do not feel alone, goose-bumps chasing the sudden shill on my skin.

The hair on the nape of my neck raises, and as I prod the sensation with my mind, I feel compelled to go outside. Standing alone in my kitchen in the middle of the night, wiping my hands on a dish rag, I ponder the dubious state of my own sanity. I have been alone out here for months. Solitude does strange things to people. I convince myself that I am falling prey to my own imagination, even as I cross the threshold into the cool night, muttering the song beneath my breath all the while.

“little red riding hood, I don’t think little big girls should, go walking in these spooky old woods alone…” I trail off as a I catch sight of something patently impossible: There is a glow to the night air at the end of the dock, like a paper lantern floating in space and I find myself drawn to it like a moth to flame. As I approach, the light appears to flicker, growing dim and dissipating altogether just as I reach the edge of the water. I stand blinking, waiting for my eyes to readjust to the darkness, and despite the glow departing, still I am not alone, I feel it in my bones.

I am shaking, I realize, and sink to my knees on the wooden planks before my legs decide to drop me. On the surface, this night is just like any other, the stars are out in multitudes, so bright here away from the city that I can make out the broad swath of the milky way. But the water is as still as glass, stiller than I have ever seen it; a perfect mirror of the sky above. There is no wind, no night birds calling, no howling of the wolves to which I have become accustomed.

Around me the world is steeped in a supernatural stillness and despite all rationality I am _absolutely certain_ that there is something here with me, occupying the apparently empty space. I should be terrified, I think. My heart should be pounding, telling me to run, but it beats more calmly than it has for months and at the back of my mind, I feel another presence. A tingling sensation at the edge of my perception and as I focus on it, the feeling intensifies to a caress, like something brushing across the surface of my thoughts. When try reaching out to it in turn, a ripple echoes out across the surface of the lake.

Startled, I lean forward, gazing down into the endless night reflecting back at me; like staring into the abyss. As I watch, I feel something start to move, as though the abyss itself is shifting to focus itself upon me. It feels like being deep underwater, the pressure crushing in on every side, and the caress at the back of my mind becomes a gentle push but goes no further: I am caught in the eye of something unfathomable, the intensity of its attention felt like a physical thing. In its pause I feel the shape of a question. Is it asking permission?

I stare into the dark and feel an emptiness to match my own and know I have nothing left to lose that I am not willing to give.

My fingers drift to the surface of the water almost of their own accord, and I think of my mind as an opened book. The cool water on my fingertips is the last physical sensation I remember. The rest is a wash of imagery and thought so intense words can hardly scratch the surface of it. The presence shows me everything; I feel the universe being born, stars and gas and dust colliding, planets born and turning cool, the endlessness of existence expanding across the void, and a million points in between, and throughout it all I feel a blinding loneliness even more intense than my own.

Time is a looping stream in this place we share between us, and minutes later we have spent years sharing our lives with one another. In the dark between us lingers a question: it wants to live, and for the first time since my husband’s death I think I might be willing to do the same. We will cease to be, the both of us. But in exchange we can become something entirely new. Someone born of our loneliness, but who will never truly be alone. Not really.

I take one last breath of cool night air, and when I let it out, I let go, leaving the emptiness behind me as I let myself fall into the welcoming darkness.

***

Being born is less frightening the second time. It helps knowing the answers to some of the bigger questions. Where? Earth, a place called America. When? 21st century. Why? Well, this is what we both wanted: a new life. What? Less definitive, but I know half of what made me was human, and the other was borne of the void. That’s a much better start than last time. Who? Blank slate, something to be filled in as we go.

 

I smile at the distorted reflection on the surface of the water, all pale skin and dark accents. Settling into my body, I push off against the soft loam beneath my feet and break the surface, push-pull-clawing my way up and out through the plants skirting the shoreline and marveling at the sensation of being wet and cold and shivering in the night air.

I startle as a sound bubbles up around me before I recognize it as my own laughter. It is deeper than the last time I heard it, what feels like a lifetime ago. Grinning fit to burst I try to catalog the newness all around me: insect wings beating through the night air, the groaning crack of the trees around me as they grow, the gentle turning of the earth beneath my feet. There are stars out there in the sky so infinitely far and I can feel the gentle pinprick of their fire on my skin.

 

The metal box behind me is my old home, a small RV spilling warm light out across the water’s surface. The soft strains of the radio reach out and I hum, closing my eyes.  _I love music_ , I decide. Not bad as far as first impressions go.

 

Inside, I find the meal that mere hours before one of my previous selves had been creating. My memories are almost dream-like as I think back, trying to remember what comes next, how to boil water, make a stew. My clothing is ill-fitting, body changed from its previous form, and I go to raid the closet while the food cooks. The reflection that greets me in the bedroom mirror gives me pause.

 

I remember the face that looked back at me before. This one is sharper, pale skin and black hair, a pointed face with prominent cheekbones and dark brown eyes. The shoulders are broader than they were, but still relatively narrow. The body is still well-muscled, strong beneath the slightness of the frame. I find longer jeans and a looser shirt, a pair of boots that fit well enough and wander back out to eat, hair tied back in a loose tail for now.

 

The radio crackles playfully, something called ‘Wolf Like Me,’ and I hum along, enjoying my first meal.

 

***

Life on Earth is small, but beautiful. I stayed for a while by the lake, settling into my new skin as best I could and pondering the best path toward my future. Looking out at the time before me as linear takes some getting used to, but I know it won’t be like this forever. For a while I entertained the possibility of finding the Doctor, goodness knows he frequents the planet enough that I could manage it, but in the end, I know it would be folly. Just as it would be foolish to seek out any of the others from his memories. Their time lines are set as far as I have seen them, and any interference I could cause would have consequences I simply cannot fathom.

Therefore, I consign myself to the slow path. I build upon the wealth my ‘mother’ left for me, and study. I take advantage of distance education, make a name for myself online as a scientific researcher and consultant. By the time human beings step into their ‘final frontier’ with confidence, I am stepping with them; the shadow following them to the stars.

It feels like going home.

***

Shortly after leaving Earth’s orbit, humanity garnered the attention of several species. Some came in peace, a friendly face looking for commerce and trade, some to share technologies, and together their cultures enriched one another. Others came looking for conquest. The latter ran aground of a series of inexplicable unfortunate events that eventually led to an impressive set of rumors.

The Earth is protected, it is said, by a Doctor.

It’s children abroad have something else; a Stranger, watching over them from the shadows.

***

A hundred years on Earth, and fifty more abroad the cosmos I finally find what I am looking for.

For the past while I have been working aboard Sweeper ships; crews of mercenary-like space-farers prone to taking up odd jobs and even odder crewmembers. The work is always different, always new, pushing us to places I have never been, meeting people I have never known, and expanding my knowledge of the universe. More often than not, I end up courting trouble like a lost lover, seemingly following my footsteps wherever I go. So far, the record is in my favor; very few have tangled with the Stranger and kept the upper hand.

To this particular outpost, we had been sent for a fairly simple delivery. A package of unknown origin to a person of unknown affiliation, for a very known amount of compensation. Fortunately for me, this particular outpost is a bustling hub of commerce where the populations of surrounding systems come to hock their wares, and lady luck has smiled upon me. One of the merchants has exactly what I need: a vortex manipulator, worse-for-wear but in a condition I believed I could restore, and for a price I could just barely manage. Of course, lady luck and karma often walk hand-in-hand in my experience, and to balance the cosmic scales on me our package delivery turns sour in the worst of ways: a weapon into the hands of a would-be tyrant.

Our employer is less than satisfied with the mess some mysterious individual made of their client’s organization. Nor are they amused by the crews’ refusal to hunt down the rapscallion who caused the ruckus. I have been circulating amongst the sweepers long enough to have something of a reputation with them, and old spacers like these are generally good at heart not to mention mightily superstitious. The threat of a spectral figure like ‘the Stranger’ haunting them through the voids in revenge is more than enough to keep them from turning me over.

All in all, it was a success. The crew got paid, I found my trinket at long last, and one less megalomaniac was running amuck throughout the system.

***

Shortly after waking beneath the surface of the lake, I had made goals for my future. It seemed the best way to continue moving forward, to make something of the life I had been given. The first goal was to one day find the Doctor, to explain the happenings on Midnight and to take the blame of those deaths from his shoulders. The rest had fallen in place like the pieces of a puzzle; stepping stones lining up one after another, to get me where I wanted to go.

First, I had to get to space, and the slow road with humanity seemed the best way to get there. It gave me the opportunity to get to know myself a bit as well. Second, I had to find a reliable method of travel through not just space, but time. The sweepers were a goldmine of experience and a wonderful way to pass the time until their wanderings took me past the parts I needed; my own personal scavenger hunt across the cosmos. The third, and final, is unfortunately the most challenging: to find the Doctor.

Chasing someone through space time is difficult enough, but on top of just finding him, it must be the _right_ Doctor. I need to find him sometime after Midnight, preferably prior to his next regeneration.

A dozen test jumps in, I think I have the hang of the manipulator. I am at least as accurate as the Doctor ever was, but unfortunately my wrist comp does not appear to have the same well-meaning sentience as the TARDIS, rewarding my mistakes with close brushes with the void, or stars, or, on one notable occasion, the maw of a Kroll.

Two dozen and my accuracy is down to three hours and 2 yards of my intended target. Which is probably as good as I am likely to get on my own. In lieu of concrete coordinates, I have developed what I like to think of as ‘plan b.’ Namely, that wherever there is trouble, there is a chance of the Doctor being present at the epicenter. Hence, where there is turmoil, strife, a mystery afoot… so shall I be.

Plan b number one has me running through the wilds of a forest planet, chasing a flesh-eating beast that had been picking off the local children.

Plan b number two, I end up a research subject of the androids occupying an asteroid cluster outside of the Pegasus cluster. Overall, not a pleasant experience but I did end up learning a few things about myself: superior resistance to most forms of radiation? Check. Ability to hold my breath past the expected tolerance of known mammalian species? Check. Ability to heal from wounds at speeds greater than anticipated? Also check. In closing, plan b number two was probably my least favorite excursion. Suffice to say, I won’t be losing any sleep over the suspicious lack of androids no longer occupying the Pegasus cluster.

Plan b number four was more eventful than most, as I managed to land directly in the middle of a royal wedding. Fortunately, the bride had a sense of humor.

Plan b number twelve I stopped counting, though I keep a journal tucked away inside my pack. I am halfway through the pages. Still no Doctor.

Currently, I have the thread of a rumor to chase. A ghost story has been working its way through the sweeper crews. Apparently, ships have been docking on autopilot, their living crew mysteriously absent. The only thing they have in common is a preplanned point along their route, taking them through a space-age Bermuda Triangle. And so, plan b number unknown sends me to a transport ship skirting the edges of the Morpheus Nebula.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the introduction of a character known as the Stranger, the life of whom this series will follow as it intertwines with Jack, Rose and the Doctor.


End file.
